


Night Without Moon

by whymzycal



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-22
Updated: 2010-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:03:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whymzycal/pseuds/whymzycal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Koumyou and Ukoku play a long-term game with high stakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Without Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Written to the prompt "Your existence belongs to me" for **a_mael**, as part of the 2008 Yuletide_Smut fiction exchange on LJ. Special thanks to rroselavy for hand-holding and bunnysquee, white_cross_b, and meicdon13 for the beta work. I have inserted dialogue from the "Burial - prologue" section of _Reload_ volume 3 and "Burial – epilogue" from _Reload_ volume 4 into the prologue and phases one and five of this fic. In particular, all of the dialogue (spoken, and one or two lines of internal dialogue) in phase five comes directly from _Reload._ Which means it's clearly not mine. And _Saiyuki_ clearly doesn't belong to me. It belongs to Kazuya Minekura. Includes D/s situations (including blood and breathplay) and some dub-con (but not for long).

** _prologue_ **

"…Well. You've once again failed to die."

He falls to his knees.

 

_ **celestial event: eclipse** _

_…blood…_ Thick and red, Goudai Sanzo's blood is dark against the pale skin of his cheek and hand but so bright against the ink-black of his hair. He swallows. Death and life and a bitterness like tears pool on the back of his tongue.

"Ken'yuu." Soft, shimmering gold, like the light of the harvest moon, beckons. He turns away. It is too bright; his eyes prickle and close against the warm glow of their own accord.

It is no better in the dark.

He can feel the fear pressing in on him from all sides, taste the fear that the others are sending out to wash over him in waves. He breathes the fear in, lets it mingle with the blood on him and in him. It tastes sharp and metallic—different from the dull iron tang of the blood that sits bitter and heavy in his mouth.

_This is mine…_ he thinks, opening his eyes and looking at his hands and at the ground where he kneels. It is all his: the blood, the death, the fear, the bitterness. The tears sliding down his face, thinning the blood and falling to stain the dirt and leaves in patterns like exotic flowers; these too are his.

He begins to laugh, the harsh sound coming like sobs from deep in his chest.

"Ken'yuu." A soft ache builds in his wrist, and he looks up. Pale, luminous fingers, thin and strong, encircle his wrist. They press against his blood-slick skin, and the bruises left by those same fingers the night before throb in time with the increasing pressure. He tries to take his wrist back, to pull it away, but the light holds him fast. Nails dig into his flesh—he gasps at their sharpness—and new blood blooms beneath them. He stares, fascinated. _This is mine,_ he thinks again.

The light leans over him and takes the shape of Koumyou Sanzo.

"Ukoku Sanzo," Koumyou says.

_This is mine._ He is pulled to his feet and led away from the battleground, away from his old existence. Koumyou draws him into a warm, dark room. The light in here is faint, like a distant memory of the sun. Pale hands strip his blood-soaked clothes from him and push him down onto a hard wooden stool. He sits, shivering, as cool water sluices over him. It stains the white tiles red… pink… then no color at all. The tiles glow in the dim light, and the water sparkles as it swirls and disappears down the dark drain.

He thinks of the moon and the stars, and of the black nothingness of deepest space. His eyes squeeze shut, and light bursts behind his eyelids in red and green supernovas like vivid flowers.

Like drops of blood on leaves.

"Ukoku Sanzo." He opens his eyes and sees darkness. It is a darkness that deflects the light, bends it so that it beads up and runs off in tiny droplets. The darkness ripples as he exhales, and he reaches out to touch it. _This is mine._ It is cold, but his fingertips seem to pass through it as though it is a patch of clear night sky. It flutters in front of him and then descends over him, wrapping him in a black frost that quickly turns to a slippery heat where it clings to his chest and shoulders. _Silk,_ he realizes as he emerges back into the soft light. Warm white hands smooth the black silk over the ridges of his ribs and stomach. They leave in their wake a heat so sharp that it makes him shiver again, his nerve endings confused by the contrast. Cool tubes of the same black silk encase his arms. They terminate in icy circles of silver at middle finger and bicep, and his exposed skin breaks into rough gooseflesh at their cold touch.

The warm white hands clasp the silver on his arms and then draw his hands upward. Hot breath warms the rings of silver encircling his fingers. He stands and shivers again as the heat soaks into metal and silk and skin. When the soft cream cotton of his new robe is draped over his shoulders, it whispers as it slides over the silk now molded to him like a second skin. The robe makes a _shusssh_ing noise as it falls to the floor, the hem brushing against the skin of his bare buttocks and legs like a lover's fleeting caress.

He sighs. _This is mine._ He raises his hands, and the wide cream sleeves of his robe slip back to gather softly in the bends of his elbows. Without Koumyou's hands, without his breath, the silver is becoming cool again. How strange that it should reject the warmth of his own body—for he is now very warm in his second skin of clinging black silk.

He touches his wrist. It throbs with a deep, dull heat that goes down to the bone. The silk beneath his fingertip is damp. He presses into the dampness, and the dull heat contracts into a single, sharp point. The dampness spreads. It is blood—_there will always be blood now,_ he thinks—but this time, it does not belong to Goudai Sanzo. It is Ukoku Sanzo's blood.

_This is mine._

 

_ **phase one: waxing crescent** _

He has been Ukoku Sanzo for thirty-eight hours and nineteen minutes.

Ukoku Sanzo opens his robe and shrugs it from his shoulders. It slides down to his waist, where he ties the sleeves in a careless but competent knot. It's too bright, all that creamy cotton. It makes his pale, sallow skin look even more yellow. He prefers the black of the silk undershirt and arm-warmers. Theirs is a black that absorbs the light—a black like his own ink-dark hair and eyes.

Silver glints; he catches the wink of it out of the corner of his eye. He grasps the band wrapped around his bicep, the metal cool and smooth where his fingertip caresses it, and begins to roll the arm-warmer down. The black swallows the silver as it inches closer to his palm, resting there until he tosses it onto his bed. It unfurls from its neat coil as it travels through the air, stretching itself into an elongated question mark when it lands. He regards it for a moment, smirking. _Mine._ He reaches for the other silver band, arm crossing his chest, and then pauses. He holds nothing in the curve of his seeking fingers.

Dark purple marks—the long, angry bruises left by Koumyou Sanzo—stand out against the pale skin of his wrist. His smirk fades into a frown. Five tiny black crescents, like knowing smiles, dot the bruises. _But this is mine,_ he thinks bitterly. Koumyou Sanzo may have named him, may have dressed him in the garb of a Sanzo priest, but none of this is his. _This is mine!_ He is the one who fought for it, who claimed it. He is the one who destroyed Goudai Sanzo and anointed himself with that priest's blood.

_I, Ukoku Sanzo, am the one!_

He leaves his room, the doorway gaping wide and black and open behind him. The hem of his robe snaps against the doorjamb as he turns into the corridor and stalks through the night-quiet hallways to the room where Koumyou Sanzo sleeps.

Firelight flickers. The shadows beckon, leading the way to the other rooms where guests are housed. The soft whisper of his bare feet on the wooden floor stops when Ukoku approaches Koumyou's door. He stands outside for a moment, collecting himself. He is no longer certain what he wants here. Confrontation? Conversation?   
From the very first moment, Koumyou Sanzo has thrown him off-balance—the man is deceptive. What does he want? Ukoku wants to see him unguarded, vulnerable. Truly unguarded and vulnerable, not the amiable, open façade that seems genuine but Ukoku knows can't be. He slides the door open and steps inside, then shuts the door quietly behind him and moves across the room.

Koumyou Sanzo lies there, his face turned toward the open window and the night sky. His skin, a luminous mother-of-pearl in the moonlight, looks soft and inviting. His breaths are long and gentle—soothing sighs in the silence of the night. Ukoku bends over and stretches his hand out, unconsciously wanting to touch, to stroke.

The shadow of his hand falls across Koumyou's chest and throat, and the position of his shadow-fingers mimics the bruises on his outstretched right arm. Ukoku's breath stops and his blood thrums in his ears. For a brief, heady moment, he can see the marks of _his_ fingers on Koumyou's smooth, white throat—he can see them as dark as his shadow, darker than Koumyou's marks on his wrist. He wants to leave a sign of himself on that pale skin, wants to claim a piece of Koumyou for himself.

_This too will be mine._ He mouths the words as his fingers hover above Koumyou's neck, and then suddenly his wrist is burning as Koumyou holds him in a grip so tight that he can feel the fine bones grinding together. He twists away, and Koumyou releases him.

"Ukoku," Koumyou says as he sits up. His voice is a little soft around the edges from sleep, and the sheet whispers over his skin as he turns to face Ukoku. Ukoku says nothing. He drops his abused arm to his side, watching as Koumyou's eyes follow his movement.

"Did I hurt you?" Koumyou says quietly. He echoes the words he used when Ukoku—Ken'yuu, then—was sequestered in the detention cell, the night before he became a Sanzo.

"Were you restraining yourself this time?" Ukoku is surprised that he's answered in kind; he's even more surprised that he doesn't sound annoyed that he's underestimated Koumyou again. But he's most surprised that he isn't particularly irked that Koumyou has pulled him off-balance once more.

_It will only make gaining the upper hand over you all the sweeter when the time comes._ He is the youngest Sanzo priest in history, confirmed here in the holy temple of Chang'An as guardian of the Muten sutra. _It will all be mine._

"Not really," Koumyou says.

"To be honest, I can't really feel it anymore." He shrugs as he says it. It's the truth. The throbbing ache is gone, replaced by a numb heat.

"Ah," says Koumyou. He looks at Ukoku's arm again, then reaches out. He takes Ukoku's wrist gently, his fingers cool against Ukoku's hot skin. "Was there something you needed from me? Did you want something?"

"Everybody always wants something," Ukoku says blandly. He watches as Koumyou turns his hand over and traces the marks his fingers have left like a brand on Ukoku's wrist. Koumyou frowns faintly.

"You're bleeding," Koumyou says. His mouth is very close to Ukoku's wrist now, and his tongue darts out to catch a drop of blood that is winding its way down the back of Ukoku's hand.

Ukoku hears himself make a strange sound. His left hand clenches in the cotton of his robe, and his groin is suddenly tingling.

Koumyou licks him again, tongue soothing another crescent mark that's broken open and has begun to bleed. Ukoku is drowning in dizziness as blood rushes to his cock and his anger rises. _You have no right,_ he thinks. _This is mine._ Mine._ My blood, my victory, my Sanzohood; it has nothing to do with you. You were here as a witness only; you should have no part in this._

Koumyou looks up at him. The smile on his lips is knowing, the glint in his eyes mocking. He is no longer the vapid-seeming dreamer he appears to be in the daylight. Ukoku releases his robe from his tight grip and winds his hand in Koumyou's braid. _You will be mine._

Koumyou rests his hand against Ukoku's shoulder before sliding it down, fingers squeezing. Ukoku's arm goes numb, and Koumyou's braid falls from his nerveless hand. "Like this," Koumyou instructs. He spins Ukoku around, tugging Ukoku's arm-warmer down and knotting it tightly around his wrists, then turns him around again and pushes him onto the bed. Ukoku's fists dig into the small of his back as he lands.

"You…" he hisses. He gets no further. His hips buck upward as Koumyou presses his hand against the erection tenting the front of his robe. The cotton is soft and heating rapidly as Koumyou rubs against him, tracing the shape of his cock with a teasing fingertip. He moans and spreads his knees, like a whore. _What…?_ His mouth is wet and open when Koumyou slips his fingers inside and strokes his tongue. He briefly contemplates biting down (_I am not helpless; I am not at your mercy!_), but Koumyou chooses that moment to slide his hand under Ukoku's robe and cup his balls. He caresses Ukoku's sac and rubs the soft skin behind it, and Ukoku sucks Koumyou's fingers, groaning. He groans louder when Koumyou's saliva-slick fingers leave his mouth to push into him, stretching him. The friction makes him ache inside and he writhes, swearing.

"Hush," Koumyou says. He waits for Ukoku to stop cursing before moving his hand again. He pushes his fingers deeper inside Ukoku's ass, and Ukoku gasps. Koumyou has pulled his robe open and pushed it aside; Ukoku is now naked but for his silk shirt and the arm-warmer binding his hands beneath him. Koumyou kneels above him, between his legs. His skin and hair are luminous where the moonlight touches them, but even in shadow he seems to glow a silver-gold. He bends over Ukoku and slides his hands between warm black silk and warmer skin, pushing the fabric up until Ukoku's nipples are exposed. Ukoku sighs, and his stomach muscles quiver and jump.

"Fuck, yes!" Ukoku whispers.

"Hush," Koumyou says again. Ukoku tries to glare at him, tries to roll his hips down to fuck himself on Koumyou fingers without Koumyou's cooperation, but the bright Sanzo anticipates him and slides his fingers away. Ukoku bites his lip in frustration and forces himself to be silent. He is rewarded by Koumyou pushing back into him, fingers scissoring, and Ukoku makes a soft keening noise low in his throat.

The keening turns into faint, wordless pleading when Koumyou takes the nub of Ukoku's nipple between his teeth and tugs. Koumyou torments first one nipple and then the other, biting and licking until they are swollen and throbbing from the attention. Ukoku is almost beside himself with need when Koumyou finally curls his hand around his cock. His spine snaps into a painful curve as he pumps his seed into Koumyou's palm, panting hoarsely and mouthing inaudible curses.

He is still trembling and panting when he feels the blunt head of Koumyou's penis, hot and slick with his own come, pressing into him. He burns as Koumyou impales him—fills him—_fucks_ him: first with slow, gliding movements that have him fully erect and leaking again almost immediately, then with deep thrusts that make the edges of his vision waver and sparkle. Every time Koumyou's hips snap forward, Ukoku's fists jab into his back. He can feel his knuckles leaving bruises like smears on his skin.

Koumyou fucks him harder—_more!_ he begs with his eyes—and Ukoku's world explodes in soundless light. The light pulses and flashes as Koumyou rocks into him again and again, and then everything dissolves into a heavy darkness, taking Ukoku away with it.

* * * * * * *

He is naked and alone in his own room when he opens his eyes. His body is marked from neck to thigh by the imprints of Koumyou Sanzo's hands and mouth.

He _aches_.

His lower back aches, doubtless from the dozens of bruises left by his fists digging into him as he was fucked. His wrists ache, the right more than the left, from soft silk pulled too tight while he was fucked.

His nipples ache. He brushes the pad of his thumb across one experimentally and bites his lip as his touch sends a jolt straight to his dick. His nipples are so tender that he suspects even the spiderweb-light silk of his undershirt will chafe them.

His ass aches—a dull, delicious ache that reaches deep inside, but it is an ache nonetheless. And his groin aches. He is half-hard from the throbbing in his ass and the twinges of pleasure/pain from his chest.

He dresses slowly and carefully, hissing a little as he pulls his black shirt down over his chest and then again when he settles his robe, breastplate, and sutra over his shoulders. Every breath shifts layers of cloth, bamboo, and sutra against his sensitive nipples; every step sends cotton whispering and fluttering against his hardening cock. He laughs. The sound falls from his lips, bitter and humorless.

* * * * * * *

Ukoku Sanzo feels Koumyou on him and in him for days, long after they have left the formal investiture at Chang'An to return to their own temples. It is galling, but he can think of nothing but the other priest until the chafing and bruises fade away.

He is certain that Koumyou has laughed at him all the way back to Kinzan.

 

** _phase two: first quarter moon_ **

He is beginning to understand that Koumyou Sanzo may prove to be the most fascinating challenge he has set for himself thus far. He has mastered everything else he has set himself to; he has yet to master Koumyou Sanzo. He wonders if such a thing is even possible.

He rounds the corner, and the silence of his footfalls is broken by a crisp crackling sound. Koumyou blows a smoke ring and turns his head to the side so that Ukoku can see his gentle smile.

"Ah, Ukoku. Care to join me for a drink in the moonlight?" He holds up a bottle and waggles it invitingly. Two cups, both full, sit on the worn wooden planks next to his thigh. Ukoku bends down to pick up the crumpled orange mess he's crushed with his sandal before sitting down next to the other man. He raises an eyebrow.

"Is that from my stash?"

"Hmmm," Koumyou says. He blows another smoke ring and raises his cup to his lips. Ukoku looks at the bottle carefully.

"Koumyou."

"It's very good." Koumyou licks his lips in appreciation.

"Then I'm glad I bought two bottles," Ukoku says.

"Mmm."

Ukoku leans back and cranes his neck to look at Koumyou's other side. The other bottle of his finest sake is tipped over, already empty. Ukoku snorts. "_You're_ glad I bought two bottles."

"So are you, my friend. So are you. We're sharing this one. It tastes better when there's someone else to appreciate it with you."

"You…." There's no use in mentioning that they could have shared both bottles if that were the case; that's clearly not the point. He takes a sip. The sake slides down his throat, cool and sweet. It warms him when it hits his stomach. "Never mind."

Crickets chirp, and Koumyou sighs in contentment. "The silence is beautiful."

"Those are crickets. Crickets aren't silence," Ukoku feels compelled to point out. He knows this isn't what Koumyou means. The game is on; it is now up to him to figure out the rules before the conversation comes to an end. Or to seize control and change the rules.

Either tactic is acceptable.

"Of course not." Koumyou gives him a sidelong glance. "It's the silence between the crickets that's beautiful. Without them, the silence is simply an absence of sound. It's only when the silence is interrupted that you can appreciate how beautiful it is."

Ukoku raises an eyebrow and fidgets with the crumpled orange paper in his left hand. It rustles, making the silence more beautiful as he unfolds it, smoothes it flat, traces the sharp creases that make a triangular fan pattern at the top. He holds it up. "And this?"

"The sky was very blue today."

"Aha," he says, as if this explains everything. "All the way from Kinzan Temple?"

"The sky was very blue all day." Koumyou sips more sake. "This bottle really does taste better. Sharing does make a difference, after all. It's a nice contrast, a good balance."

"Like silence and crickets."

"Orange paper airplanes and the blue autumn sky, yes."

"Aha." This time he means it; it really does explain everything. "So tell me, then." He smiles. He's figured out the rules. "What color do you use when you fly paper airplanes at night?"

"You don't." Koumyou gives him a puzzled look. "That's what the moon is for." Ukoku laughs.

"That's a bit ham-handed, even for you! I was expecting something deep or clever, Koumyou. Heh. After all this time, I still don't know if you're brilliant or just retarded."

"Ah." Koumyou pours more sake. "If you haven't figured that out by now, I'm afraid you never will." His smile is warm and genuine as he lifts his cup.

Ukoku makes his mouth smile in return, but wrinkles appear between his eyes as he frowns inside. He's just been issued yet another challenge. He drinks his full cup then lies back, arms crossed under his head, to watch clouds scudding over the moon.

He has mastered everything else he has set himself to; he has yet to master Koumyou Sanzo. He wonders if he can.

He wonders whether he truly wants to.

 

** _phase three: waxing gibbous moon_ **

_…light…_ Softest silver and gold, it shimmers around him and flutters against his skin. He inhales deeply, and the light flows into his lungs. It pulses there, pressing against his ribcage in time with the beating of his heart. He exhales. His breath is cool and dark, and the light in front of him shivers as his breath touches it.

But some of the light remains within him.

"_Ah…._" The light sighs. It caresses his cheek, its touch warm and feather-light. He looks up. It is painful, but when he closes his eyes, he still cannot hide from it. The light is everywhere: without and within. He tries to pull away—to turn from it—but strong, bright fingers twine in the deep blackness of his hair and hold him fast.

He struggles. _No,_ he thinks. _No, this is none of mine; this is not me!_ And yet he craves it. He wants to devour it, to subvert it. His hands plunge into the shimmering curtain of silver and gold. The light whispers over the black silk of his arm-warmers in sinuous loops and coils, drapes him to the elbow. It cloaks the darkness so that it becomes bright, bright—_so bright_.

The light arches above him, a dying sigh on its lips. Warmth floods his mouth, fills him. He swallows. The light is clean and sharp, tasting of life as he drinks it down. He thrills to feel the light trembling in his hands, but he trembles himself as the light touches the very core of his being. It floods every corner of him. He can no longer hide; he is consumed by it.

The last speck of darkness within him winks out in a flash of pale, silver-washed gold.

He is himself no longer. He is but a vessel of the light.

* * * * * * *

Ukoku Sanzo jerks awake, arousal and agitation making his heart hammer behind his breastbone. His breath rasps in his throat, and he is covered in sweat. The black silk undershirt and arm-warmers cling to him, outlining every dip and ridge of muscle and bone on his torso. His pale robe is a heavy mass of too-warm cotton at his waist; his prick is hot and stiff and throbbing. The only relief from the heat is the bite of the cold metal rings encircling his biceps and middle fingers.

He pushes his robe aside and spits into his palm. Already-damp silk becomes slick with his saliva, and he wraps his fingers around his cock. It takes only a few frantic strokes before his cock is jerking in his hand and he is coming in long, luminous strands of white that stripe his stomach and chest and lick up over his cheek. He shudders, curling in on himself, and slumps against his pillow. The rapid beat of his heart subsides, his arousal and agitation abated for now.

The dream is nearly forgotten already. His eyes shut, and as he slides back into the cool, comforting darkness of sleep once more, it fades away entirely.

 

_ **phase four: full moon** _

Ukoku groans as Koumyou fills him for the third time this night. Koumyou's braid has fallen over his shoulder, and the end of it brushes over Ukoku's sweat-slick skin. He shivers with each thrust. Moonlight streams in through the open window, gilding Koumyou with a luminous silver that makes the white of his skin and the faded gold of his hair shimmer with an unearthly light.

He thrusts again, and Ukoku gasps. He clutches at Koumyou's braid. It wraps around him, curling around his forearm like a living thing. Its brightness is almost sharp, and it makes his eyes water. He closes them. Koumyou's hips snap forward again, and Ukoku cries out as light and heat build anew. He is drunk with the light—dazed by it—drowning in it.

Koumyou thrusts into him once more, and Ukoku shudders. He can feel Koumyou breathing him in, matching him breath for breath, drawing him deep into his lungs and holding him there as he fucks him. Ukoku's own breath hitches in his chest. _Wait,_ he thinks. And _No, I can give you no more of myself! You can take no more of me; what's left is mine. Mine!_ He is being swallowed by the light of the moon, by Koumyou Sanzo's light. He knows what will happen next: nothing of Ukoku Sanzo will remain. He tries to hold his breath, to keep something of himself back, but Koumyou grinds into him again and Ukoku's breath explodes from his lungs in a sharp, desperate exhalation. Koumyou breathes him in, and Ukoku trembles. He reaches up, curls his hand around the base of Koumyou's throat, and squeezes.

Koumyou fucks into him, and Ukoku's grip fails; Koumyou knocks his hand away easily. "Ukoku," he breathes out. Ukoku inhales, choking on the light that fills his lungs and flashes behind his eyes with Koumyou's next thrust. _No,_ he thinks. _No!_ He raises his hand again, but Koumyou grabs his wrist. His hips surge forward, and Ukoku lets out a breath like a sob.

Koumyou inhales sharply, and Ukoku opens his mouth wide. He cannot breathe.

Koumyou's hand is pressing against Ukoku's throat, his fingers squeezing as he fucks into him. Ukoku shudders, and his cock twitches. Koumyou squeezes harder and thrusts into him yet again. Light explodes deep inside, but the edges of him are dark. _Yes,_ he thinks. _Yes!_ Another thrust, and the light returns, dimmer this time. He cannot breathe, but he does not care. His face grows hot, and he grips Koumyou's arms. He arches his back, meets the next surge of Koumyou's hips. Everything is so dim now, even the _too much_ of Koumyou's thrusts and the moonlight reflecting off Koumyou's skin. _Yes._ Koumyou fucks into him harder now, faster, and tightens his grip on Ukoku's neck. The flashes of light behind his eyes are but mere pinpricks now. He can feel his cock swelling, feel the blood rushing to his groin and his balls lifting and growing tight. Everything begins to fade away, and he bucks upward, cock and body clamoring for release. Cool air floods his lungs, and his back bows into an impossibly high arch as he draws in a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes roll back into his head, and the stars behind them fade into nothingness as he is swept away by a wave of dark, soul-deep ecstasy.

His last thought is of the fading light that has given him back to himself.

* * * * * * *

He smells pipe smoke, mellow and sweet. It burns his throat when he breathes it in. He opens his eyes. Koumyou Sanzo sits in the window, one foot on the window ledge and the other on the floor. He glances over. The sky behind him is tinged a deep pink from the rising sun.

"Ukoku," Koumyou says softly. He has an odd expression on his face: tender and a little sad, Ukoku thinks. "You're so beautiful when your body begs like that. Did you know?" Ukoku stares at him. He ignores his prick, which throbs a little when Koumyou speaks. Koumyou smiles gently, and Ukoku's eyes flutter shut though he fights to keep them open. He sleeps, safe in the dark and under Koumyou's gaze.

* * * * * * *

The sun is high in the sky when Ukoku wakes. Koumyou Sanzo is gone. But for the echo of Koumyou's words, the finger-shaped bruises hidden by his traditional garb, and the deep, sweet ache in his ass, Ukoku could almost believe that Koumyou has never been there at all.

 

_ **phase five: waning gibbous moon** _

He can feel it—the moment Koumyou realizes that he is here. Despite his ability to move in a swath of silence, he still lacks the stealth he needs to take even a preoccupied Koumyou unawares.

"I _thought_ the moon had gone into hiding. Was that your fault?" One of these days, Ukoku tells himself, he will be the one to fire off the initial salvo.

"What an awful thing to say." He sits down, putting the bottle of sake that Koumyou's been drinking between them.

"Look. Even the crickets stopped chirping." Koumyou has a point: the silence is rarely beautiful when Ukoku is on his own. In his presence, silence is merely the absence of sound and nothing more.

"Right, right. I'm terribly sorry." And he is, in a way. Mostly, however, he isn't. He feels that way about many things—like Koumyou's pet disciple, for instance. "Hey." He picks up Koumyou's cup and takes a sip of his sake. "Was that the infamous Kouryuu?"

"It was. He'll be turning seven soon." Koumyou's voice is warm, glowing. Ukoku swallows more sake, and a faint bitterness bleeds onto the back of his tongue, seeping out from beneath the initial wash of sweetness.

"Mmm. A little smartass. How charming."

Koumyou smiles, his warmth directed at Ukoku now. "He reminds me of someone. A _certain_ someone a few years ago."

"Is that right?" Ukoku rests his chin in his hand. "I wonder who?" He remembers that Koumyou once drew this same comparison within minutes of their first meeting. He is almost entirely displeased that the other Sanzo has continued to regard him in a light similar to that of his damn precious Kouryuu. It reminds him that Kouryuu has a first claim on Koumyou—a claim he never had a chance to stake.

"Who indeed." Koumyou's smile grows wider, and the crickets choose that moment to begin chirping again. "Ah! The crickets are back!" His smile becomes luminous as he leans into the spaces between the _criiiiiiick_s. Ukoku watches him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for an opportune moment. He times it well.

"Got any persimmon sake?"

"That's expensive! Hush." Koumyou tilts his head back and drinks in the night sounds. Ukoku ignores the crickets, choosing instead to drink as much of the sake as Koumyou's inattentiveness will allow. He has a ways to go before he catches up, after all. And then Koumyou sits up. He looks at Ukoku. "Oh yes! I almost forgot," Koumyou says.

Ukoku sets the cup down. "Forgot what?" He hopes that Koumyou has remembered a surplus of persimmon sake hidden away in his room somewhere and is ready to excuse himself to retrieve it. It would be like him, to suddenly recall something like that.

_"Long time no see."_

Oh. Oh! _This_ is even more like him. Ukoku's lips twitch as he tries to hold himself back. He is—unsurprisingly—unsuccessful. He splutters and folds himself forward, arms crossed over his stomach as he laughs. He should have known. He should have _known_.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, wow." Ukoku covers his face with his hand. "You really don't change." _Four years, and you still catch me off my guard._ "You're the same as you ever were, Koumyou." _Am I? No, I'm not. But you…_ You…

The moment is bittersweet.

"Well, I suppose. Should I take that as a compliment?"

_Yes._ "You know what?" _No._ "That's a secret." _You are forever changing the rules, Koumyou. When will I be the one to choose the game?_

They drink, sharing Koumyou's lone cup. The ceramic is warm from sitting in the palm of Koumyou's hand. Neither the chill of the autumn night nor Ukoku's cool fingers can completely banish Koumyou's lingering body heat from it as the moon creeps lower in the sky, looming ever larger as it inches toward the horizon. They sit and sip, and they talk of inconsequential things. Ukoku ignores the moon. He has his metaphorical hands full trying to decide whether to take their conversation at face value or to sift through layers that may only exist in his imagination. _Which is the more unexpected?_

He only stops trying when he feels the tone of the night shift. He takes one final sip and stands, a quirked eyebrow the only sign that he's heard Koumyou's quiet admonition to stop monopolizing the last of the sake. His robe _shusssh_es where it brushes the ground. "All right, then. Next time I'll bring a present or something." _Like persimmon sake, you stingy old man,_ he doesn't say as Koumyou stands with him.

"You're leaving already?" Koumyou sounds genuinely disappointed. Ukoku is both perversely pleased and a little disgusted by this. Koumyou, in having done nothing unexpected, has once again managed to do the unexpected.

"It's almost dawn." He says this as though it explains everything. He lights a cigarette, takes a drag.

"Ha ha!" Koumyou's soft chuckle is genuine, too. "Sunlight will turn you to ash, perhaps?"

Ukoku pauses. Smoke pours from his mouth. "…Something like that." Koumyou watches him for a moment, then _looks_ at him, suddenly thoughtful.

"Oh! I just remembered something. When we went to Chang'An together, when you became a Sanzo, the witness priest, Jikaku, felt the need to comment." Aha. This, it would seem, is the expected surprise.

"Comment?"

"He compared the two of us to the dark of night and the moon." _Have others always seen it too, then?_ Ukoku wonders. His pulse quickens. _Is it more than just a fancy of mine?_ Koumyou smiles self-deprecatingly, but for once the gesture doesn't fully reach his eyes. He looks down at his hands, which are folded and half-tucked into his sleeves. "I retorted, of course. I told him I'm not nearly as punctual as the moon."

_"Koumyou."_ Ukoku's fingers tremble where they hold his cigarette. He takes another drag, outwardly calm. _Do you know? It has always been a game, Koumyou. But do you know how deadly in earnest it is, has always been? You must. You _must_ have known, from the very first. What will you do when I finally acknowledge it? What will you do when I declare myself? …What will _I_ do?_ He breathes in a last lungful of cool night air, imagining himself gulping down the moonlight as he does so. The image both thrills him and gives him pause. He almost remembers… something. But no. This is too perfect. He brushes the wisp of uncertainty away, buries it in a dark corner of his mind.

"Yes?"

"Say you're the moon. And I'm the night, right?" Ukoku smirks. "Which one of us gets swallowed by the other?" Koumyou smiles, and Ukoku sees it all there in his face. He has known all along; he has been waiting for this. Somehow, this excites Ukoku even more.

The scrape of Koumyou's sandals against the ground breaks the pre-dawn stillness as he turns to face Ukoku head-on. "Perhaps we should make a bet, Ukoku."

"All right." _Yes. Let us finally declare ourselves._ "What are the stakes?"

"Hmm." Koumyou appears to consider the question, but Ukoku is not fooled. _I know, Koumyou. I know._ "I'd say the next rising sun."

Ukoku inclines his head, accepting. "We're not backing down. Not you, and not me." He takes a final drag and lets his cigarette fall to the ground. He steps on it, crushing the ember so only dim ash and torn paper remain. _You know why._

_Someday soon, Koumyou, this will all be mine._

_Even you._

 

_ **phase six: last quarter moon** _

"Ukoku. You've been here for two days, watching me. Why haven't you accepted my hospitality?" The words are low, spoken softly against his ear.

His eyes snap open. He jackknifes upright, hands fisting in Koumyou's robe, and prepares to throw his weight to get the other Sanzo off him—to put Koumyou at his mercy. Koumyou is faster. He uses Ukoku's momentum against him and bends him, turns him so that he is pressed face-down into his bedroll. Ukoku sighs heavily into the thin blanket and then grunts as Koumyou wraps a soft, flexible cord from his elbows to his wrists and knots it.

"I was planning to come see you in a few hours, you know," he says. His voice is muffled, so he turns his head to the side. The horizon is stained orange and red by the setting sun, and he blinks against the dying light as Koumyou makes the knots tighter. Ukoku can feel his shoulders straining as they're pulled back more, and his cock begins to take an interest in the proceedings. _Perfidious organ,_ he thinks at it.

"Oh?"

"I was doing reconnaissance." He attempts a careless shrug. "…Plotting. I'm finished now, though." He speaks in half-truths; he shows Koumyou the cheerful, affable acolyte he once was—a person he's rarely pretended to be to Koumyou since he was Ken'yuu. He knows that Koumyou is not fooled. He doesn't intend for him to be.

"And?"

"Strangely enough, I'd imagined a scenario like this one. Only in my version, I'm not the one tied up."

"Ah. If you'd come visiting like a civilized person, I might have been lulled into a false sense of security. You could have pounced on me in my sleep or while we were drinking."

"I tried that once," Ukoku mutters, "pouncing on you in your sleep." His nipples stiffen into hard peaks as he remembers his first encounter with Koumyou Sanzo and his knot-tying ability, and he feels the familiar itch of irritation mixing in with his growing arousal.

"So you did."

"As I remember, it worked out about as well as this has." Ukoku keeps his voice light. He remembers the anger of that first night, the desire to mark Koumyou as his and to erase the pale Sanzo's part in his triumph. If he is honest with himself, he remembers every time he has tried to take something from Koumyou. He has not yet taken anything that Koumyou hasn't given him first. Not even his open declaration to claim dominance—to play for bigger stakes—has changed the game. It makes the frustration of every thwarted attempt sting more, but it also makes the anticipation that much sweeter, he tells himself. Someday, Koumyou will make a mistake. Someday, Koumyou will break. And he, Ukoku Sanzo, will be there to witness it.

He does not think about how he might truly feel if that day ever comes.

"Maybe things will end up being different from what you expect." Koumyou's weight shifts, and Ukoku hears him standing, hears the rustle of cotton and the whisper of silk falling to the ground before Koumyou gets back on his knees, straddling Ukoku. Koumyou bends down. "What happens in your version, Ukoku?" His breath is hot against Ukoku's ear. Ukoku shivers, closing his eyes. Images of Koumyou's lips wrapped around his cock, of Koumyou's ass stretched and loose and leaking his semen flash through his mind. He can feel Koumyou watching him. "Ukoku." Koumyou grips him by the hair and pulls. Ukoku's neck stretches painfully; his scalp prickles. Blood and a throbbing heat pool in his groin. He's not certain which arouses him more: the thought of taking Koumyou, or of Koumyou yet again bending him to his will. If he's honest with himself, he's never certain. Koumyou's fingers tighten, and he hears the soft _snap_ of a few hairs breaking in Koumyou's grip. His cock twitches again.

"You suck me off, and then I fuck you." _I make you mine._

"Oh?" Koumyou moves off of him and pushes him over. Ukoku rolls onto his back, his bound arms pinned uncomfortably beneath him. Koumyou kneels next to him, naked. Ukoku is still clothed, having fallen asleep in his traditional garb, but Koumyou wears his nakedness with all the authority and assurance that his vestments usually grant him.

He is beautiful.

Ukoku's fingers, trapped in the small of his back, twitch. He wants to touch, to feel, to stroke and to pet and to _mark_ all of that pale, pale skin. Instead, those white hands sink into the fabric of his robe and skate up his bare thighs. He lets his legs fall open at Koumyou's touch, watches as Koumyou peels the robe away from his groin, his stomach, his chest. Koumyou runs his hands over Ukoku's silk-clad torso, nails catching softly on Ukoku's erect nipples. Ukoku's cock, hard and damp at the tip, jumps.

And then Koumyou swallows him down. Ukoku curses, bites his lip to stifle the flow of words. His head bangs on the ground as his hips flex upward, and he groans. He's had no chance to prepare himself for this; he has no frame of reference for this. All he knows is _hot, wet, yes, so good, _fuck,_ yes, so _good_…_ Koumyou licks and sucks, exploring the ridged veins of his shaft and delicately mouthing his sensitive foreskin. He tongues Ukoku's slit, and Ukoku sucks in a quick, shaking breath. Koumyou's warm fingers gently cup his balls and stroke over, under, behind. Ukoku no longer feels the pinch of the knots holding him fast or the weight of his back pressing his arms into the ground. His whole body is vibrating now, all sensation rushing to his groin as Koumyou caresses him with his tongue once more and presses a knuckle against the hot skin of his perineum.

Everything turns inside out, dragged upward and overturned by a cresting wave of ecstasy. He comes down from the wave of pleasure slowly, dimly hearing his own ragged moans and feeling the dull ache in his shoulders and arms. His cock and balls throb, hot and heavy with unspilled seed. Ukoku looks down at himself, vision blurred by the still-receding bliss, and swears. His cock juts upward—hungry, flushed dark, and wet from Koumyou's mouth—but as hard as ever. It points at him accusingly.

"You bastard," he pants. Koumyou smiles and covers him with his hands. The soft brush of Koumyou's fingers against the hot, aching skin of his erection makes him jerk his hips upward. He tries to get some friction, to get himself off quickly so that Koumyou's hands will be covered with his come, but Koumyou, it seems, has other ideas. Ukoku feels something cool wrap around the base of his cock and jumps when it _snap_s shut painlessly. Koumyou moves his hands away, and Ukoku curses again.

"Ukoku."

Ukoku cannot take his eyes off the cock ring. His dick throbs, and the pulse in his temples throbs in time with it. "You're a complete asshole."

"Ukoku." Koumyou's voice is suddenly commanding, and Ukoku tears his gaze from his groin to look at the other Sanzo. "Do you need to be gagged? Do I need to blindfold you, Ukoku?" Ukoku shivers as the blood rushes in his ears and heat crackles down his spine, anger and desire and humiliation vying for dominance. Desire wins by the narrowest of margins, as it always has. The words are out of his mouth before he's aware that he intends to speak.

"Fuck you, Koumyou." Something flashes in Koumyou's eyes before the look in them hardens, becomes predatory. Koumyou turns away from him and pulls an object from the heap of cloth that is his clothes. The last rays of the setting sun glint redly off the edge of a knife, and Ukoku's mouth goes dry. His breath quickens. He is oddly disappointed when Koumyou only uses the knife to cut two strips from the bedroll. That surprising thought occupies him momentarily, distracting him from what Koumyou is doing until the evening goes completely dark.

The makeshift blindfold is scratchy against the delicate skin of his eyelids; the gag tastes terrible where it pushes against his tongue. It chafes the soft corners of his mouth. These new sensations almost make him forget about his aching arms and his throbbing dick. He sighs experimentally, humming low in his throat. The sound is muffled, choked by the gag.

"Hush," Koumyou says. Obedient for the moment—_only because it suits my purpose_, he tells himself—Ukoku listens carefully. He can see nothing; he cannot touch Koumyou unless Koumyou touches him first. All he can rely upon now is his ears. He breathes out slowly, trying to relax and to quiet the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. He ignores the prickling in his hands, the ache in his shoulders, the heavy pulse of need in his cock, the cold bite of the silver encircling his arms and fingers. And then he hears it: a slight hitch in Koumyou's breathing. His heartbeat quickens. What is Koumyou doing? Is it the sight of Ukoku, bound and helpless before him, that affects him? Ukoku breathes faster, the noise of his heart growing louder in his ears. He can vaguely hear the sounds of Koumyou moving near him, feel the change in air temperature as Koumyou bends over him.

Something cool and slick envelops him, sliding over the hot, sensitive skin of his cock. He gasps and thrusts upward with his hips. Koumyou's fingers squeeze gently, warningly, and Ukoku forces himself to be still. He lies quiescent, waiting—listening—feeling the air shift and eddy above him and around him. And then he moans.

_Hot. Tight. Wet._ He cannot move beyond the rapid inhale-exhale of his breaths. Koumyou is lowering himself slowly, taking Ukoku inside inch by agonizing inch. Ukoku trembles. All his attention is focused on the sensations of his cock being swallowed by Koumyou's hot, tight passage. He can feel the flutter of muscles as Koumyou stretches around him, accommodating him; he can feel himself slowly... slowly... so slowly sinking deeper inside until Koumyou stops, fully impaled.

He waits, every nerve in his body singing with anticipation.

And then Koumyou moves. He lets out a gasp—high above Ukoku and so soft that Ukoku almost thinks he's imagined it—as he begins to fuck himself on Ukoku. Ukoku groans. His cock is hard and hot, and his balls ache as he arches his back and rolls his hips up to meet Koumyou's downward movements. The pain in Ukoku's hands throbs in time with the need in his cock as Koumyou takes him deep inside again… and again… and again. Ukoku tries to thrust upward, to force himself even deeper inside, but Koumyou leans forward and flattens his palms against Ukoku's chest. The additional weight makes his shoulders protest and his hands go numb, and now he can only lie still, feeling the rough, burning need building low in the pit of his stomach and hearing the faint gasps and sighs above him as Koumyou uses him. _As Koumyou uses…_

Ukoku struggles halfheartedly, a flicker of anger rising in his chest. He tries once more to assert some sort of claim on Koumyou; he tells himself that he wants to fuck, to rut into Koumyou, to pound into him until Koumyou cries out and loses control…

But Ukoku is the one who cries out, whimpering behind the gag as Koumyou shifts his weight to lean back and steady himself with his hands on Ukoku's thighs. He feels the rhythm of Koumyou's fucking change, feels Koumyou's inner muscles squeezing him tight, tighter, more tightly than the cock ring that keeps him from coming. His skin burns with his building need, and tears of frustration seep from the corners of his eyes, dampening the blindfold as Koumyou rides him.

Koumyou lifts himself up high, nearly uncoupling from Ukoku. Ukoku jerks his hips upward, instinctively trying to follow—to bury himself inside once more—when the tight ring of leather at the base of his cock is pulled free. Koumyou drops back down, ass once more swallowing Ukoku's cock as he grinds into him. Ukoku shouts in anger and humiliation and relief behind the gag as his hips piston upward of their own accord. His cock swells and spurts deep inside Koumyou, and pinpricks of light explode into bright, whirling galaxies in the darkness behind the blindfold. He goes limp, utterly spent, and almost doesn't hear Koumyou's low moan or notice the sticky semen soaking into the silk covering his chest and stomach.

Koumyou moves off him entirely too soon, and Ukoku grunts as his softening prick slides free of Koumyou's ass. His throat is raw. Now that he is no longer consumed by the overwhelming need to come, he is beginning to feel everything, and he feels it _everywhere_. His shoulders are hot and tight; the corners of his mouth feel chafed and bruised, tender from the rough wool of the gag; the blindfold over his eyes irritates the sensitive skin of his salt-rimmed eyelids; his arms and hands are devoid of feeling but for the occasional electric _zing_ of a mostly-deadened nerve firing; and though he is still fully clothed, the soft night breeze makes him shiver as it dances through his sweat-soaked hair and over his come-damp silks.

Koumyou's warm hands slide under his back and nudge him first onto his side, and then onto his stomach. He feels the pressure of Koumyou's fingers picking loose the knots at his elbows and wrists, and then his arms are free. Koumyou strokes his arms gently, from shoulder to fingertip, his touch soft and sure and welcome. Ukoku shivers again, this time from the painful stabs of returning circulation, and Koumyou eases him over onto his back once more. He unties the blindfold and gag.

"Did I hurt you?" Koumyou's voice is low and gentle as he wipes sweat and tears from Ukoku's cheeks. He touches the corner of Ukoku's mouth with the tip of his thumb. Salt stings the tender skin there.

_Only my pride._ He shivers again and tries to raise his arms, to cradle them against his chest. _I think._ Koumyou leans down and digs his thumbs into the sore muscles of his shoulders. It makes Ukoku groan and arch into his touch. _I don't know._ After a few minutes, Koumyou's hands move lower, soothing his biceps and warming the metal there. Enough feeling has returned to his arms, so Ukoku pushes him away and sits up. He attempts to rearrange his clothing, and Koumyou stands, letting him. Ukoku looks up, and his clumsy fingers fumble with the fabric of his robe. The cotton falls back into his lap, disarranged.

Koumyou is bending over, retrieving his clothing. Ukoku can see his semen leaking from Koumyou's ass. It glistens in the light of the rising moon, curving in sticky trails over the soft white flesh of Koumyou's buttocks and thighs. Koumyou tugs his undershirt on and pulls his braid free of the high neck, then slides his arms into the black silk arm-warmers. He bends over again, poking his toes into his socks, and Ukoku sees that Koumyou is loose and stretched. A heat starts at the base of his skull and ripples down his spine to settle in the pit of his stomach. He thinks he must have made a noise because Koumyou turns his head, his profile sharp and radiant in the soft moonlight. His hair makes a hissing, whispering sound as it swings across his back.

"Was it everything you imagined it would be?" Koumyou's robe falls around his shoulders, and he drops the bamboo breastplate and sutra into place. He twitches his shoulders once to settle them properly before he steps into his sandals and looks over at Ukoku, his smile small and gentle and not quite reaching his eyes.

_No._ Yes. _I don't know._ Ukoku falls onto his back and covers his face with his hand. When he blinks up at the moon some indeterminate time later, Koumyou is gone and he is no closer to understanding the complicated heat of anger/arousal that still burns in his stomach.

_Was it everything I imagined it would be? Yes. Everything and more, Koumyou. And everything and _less_._

This is one more fantasy that Koumyou has taken and twisted to his own purposes, one more scenario that Koumyou has perverted. Ukoku licks his lips, tasting the raw flesh at the corners of his mouth.

This is just another encounter that has left him frustrated, furiously admiring, and _wanting_ so much more.

 

_ **phase seven: waning crescent moon** _

"In case you pull the knots too tight," Koumyou says as he drops it onto the low table. The knife looks cold and sharp where it glints next to the lamp. Its handle glistens from the oil on Koumyou's hand. Ukoku curls his fingers in anticipation, and he digs his nails into the worn rope that binds his wrists and holds them stretched over his head. The ends of the rope are looped around a small but sturdy hook near the join of floor and wall, installed in this guest room where Koumyou has been sleeping for just this purpose. Ukoku isn't surprised that Koumyou has noticed the hook, unobtrusive though it is. He thinks he might have even counted on it. "Now turn over. On your knees."

Ukoku rolls over onto his stomach and gets his knees under him. He feels awkward; his bound hands make it difficult to complete the movement with anything resembling grace, and he has a few false starts before he's turned over, ass in the air. He inches forward so he can rest his head on his forearms, elbows and knees bearing his weight equally.

Koumyou grips his hips with strong hands, steadying him as he penetrates him, and Ukoku shudders. He stifles his grunt of pleasure by biting down on his arm, his head turned slightly to the side. He's looking at the knife. He can't take his eyes off it, not even when Koumyou pulls back and thrusts forward, deliberately taking his time. The sensation is agonizing in its slowness, and Ukoku narrows his eyes to slits as he muffles another sound in the bend of his elbow. Koumyou thrusts again. He pushes down on Ukoku's hips, and Ukoku gasps. He squeezes the hard length of Koumyou's cock with his ass. The rhythm of Koumyou's breath falters for a split second before he thrusts in again, slow and deep.

Ukoku looks at the knife. It seems to waver when he rocks forward on his elbows and knees, moving as Koumyou slides almost-out and then pushes back in, almost too deep. He wonders what the edge of the knife would look like with a thin thread of blood running down it. The thought makes him flush, and he begins to sweat. Heat spreads from the center of his body and creeps outward until he's hot and trembling all over.

Koumyou fucks into him again, even deeper this time. He grips the rope in his hands and makes a high-pitched noise like a whine in the back of his throat. He doesn't hear himself. He's in a daze from the slow thrusts, from the heat and the gradual pleasure gathering somewhere deep inside. And then Koumyou pulls out. Ukoku moans.

"…Fucking bastard..." he pants. His voice is raw, his breathing ragged. "…bastard…"

"Ukoku." Koumyou pushes him down onto the futon and picks up the knife. Ukoku raises his head just enough to watch. His cock throbs as the lamplight flickers across the bright metal of the knife's blade, and he swears again.

Koumyou puts the knife down. He frowns at Ukoku and grips his thighs, pushing them apart so he can slide his fingers deep inside Ukoku's loose, slick passage. He spreads his fingers and curls them, moving them deeper until Ukoku jerks and cries out despite himself. Koumyou's smile is cool, devoid of any of his usual warmth as he finger-fucks Ukoku, wringing pants and moans and curses from him until Ukoku feels himself breaking. _"Please!"_ he finally gasps. He turns his head to look at first the knife and then Koumyou. "Please." Koumyou curls his fingers once more, and Ukoku begs again, hating himself. Hating Koumyou.

But he wants—he _needs_—even more than he hates. He burns with it. "Koumyou, _please_, I… _please."_

"Turn over." Koumyou's voice is as cool as his smile, which fades as Ukoku pushes himself over onto his back. His fingers catch in the rope in his haste to comply. Koumyou passes the edge of the blade through the lamp's flame, and Ukoku trembles. His skin prickles hot then cold as it breaks out into gooseflesh. "Ukoku…" Koumyou's voice is still cool, but it sounds somehow more gentle.

_"Koumyou._ Koumyou, you—" Time stops, and he forgets how to breathe. A short, sharp line burns its way across his thigh, curving from low to high. He can feel a thin trickle of blood sliding down the delicate, sensitive skin of his inner thigh, and then he feels the soft, wet heat of Koumyou's tongue tracing the line—soothing it. Koumyou follows the line with his tongue a second time and blows on it. The contrast between the heat of Koumyou's tongue and the coolness of his breath brings Ukoku back to himself. He suddenly remembers to breathe and draws in a shuddering lungful of air. He has little time to recover before Koumyou carves a matching line in the soft skin of his other thigh. Koumyou soothes the sting away with his tongue and breath once again before moving the knifepoint to Ukoku's hip. This time, the blade describes a circle. Koumyou cuts the circle a little deeper, dipping the knife into the bloody ring a second time between one swipe of his tongue and the next before moving to Ukoku's opposite hip. Ukoku is shivering now, covered in a sweat that bites into the thin slashes.

By the time Koumyou has finished scratching parallel lines to either side of Ukoku's navel, Ukoku is panting hard enough that Koumyou almost cuts too deep. And when Koumyou slices a sweeping spiral over his heart, Ukoku is dizzy from the too-fast in-and-out of his desperate breaths. Koumyou presses his lips and tongue to the bleeding line on Ukoku's chest, and Ukoku arches up, straining into his touch. He pulls against his bonds in an attempt to bring Koumyou even closer, pulls until his muscles ache.

_Please._ He squeezes his eyes shut until he sees red behind his eyelids, turns his face away—denying the pleas that fall soundlessly from his lips even as his mouth and body beg. _Please._

"Ukoku." He feels Koumyou's breath on his lips and opens his mouth to demand, to deny, to beseech. Soft, warm lips press against his own. Ukoku's eyes snap open and he inhales instinctively. He's felt the touch of Koumyou's lips everywhere before, even the most private and secret places on his body, but never here. He draws Koumyou's breath into his lungs. The metallic taste of his own blood spreads over his tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste.

_This is mine,_ he realizes. He kisses back fiercely, biting down until he feels Koumyou's lip split between his teeth. _Mine._ Warm, salty blood floods into his mouth. Its taste is different from that of his own; Koumyou's blood tastes sharp and coppery—like life. This time, it is Koumyou's turn to draw Ukoku's breath into his lungs. Koumyou moans, the sound coming from deep in his chest, and he grips Ukoku's hips. His thumbs press into Ukoku's blood-smeared skin and Ukoku cries out as Koumyou sinks back into him. He wrestles with the rope binding his wrists.

_Please._ He doesn't know what he's asking for anymore. He only knows that he wants, that he needs. _Please._

"Ukoku." Koumyou hears him, answers his need. He thrusts forward roughly and Ukoku writhes beneath him, panting. _Mine,_ he mouths. _More._ He brings his knees up and wraps his legs around Koumyou's waist. When Koumyou pulls his hips back to thrust in again, Ukoku holds him fast. _This is mine._ Mine!

Koumyou's fingers are in Ukoku's hair, tugging sharply, warning him to be still. Ukoku groans, ignores him, and tries to pull Koumyou deeper inside. He wants to swallow Koumyou, to possess him.

To be possessed by him.

The knife flashes above him, and Ukoku trembles. He wants—he _wants._ The knife slashes through the ropes wound around his wrists before clattering to the floor. Ukoku's arms are numb, weak. He cannot move them yet, so he simply lies there, rocking his hips upward to meet Koumyou's thrusts as he waits for the strength to lift his arms. Koumyou bends over him, fucks into him with cock and tongue. Ukoku can feel Koumyou everywhere: on him, in him, over him, around him. He finally raises his arms and clings to Koumyou's shoulders. His fingers slip in the fine sheen of sweat that coats Koumyou's skin, so he curls them, biting into Koumyou's skin with nails and teeth. Koumyou shudders above him and buries his face against Ukoku's neck, groaning. They grapple with one another, and Koumyou's rough thrusts become more erratic. His moans grow louder.

_This is mine,_ Ukoku thinks hazily as Koumyou pins him to the futon and thrusts so hard that he sees stars. He rakes his nails down Koumyou's back and cries out as Koumyou arches against him, thrusting even deeper. He is blinded by passion, by the growing ecstasy that is dragging him into the bright light of release. _I've done this; I'm the one who's brought you to this. You are mine!_ And it's as though Koumyou has heard him. Koumyou jerks into him one last time, the rhythm of his hips stuttering as he lets out a low, hoarse shout. Ukoku pulls Koumyou down, swallows his cry with a deep, passionate kiss. The knowledge that he is the one who has brought Koumyou to his crisis, that he is the one who has made Koumyou lose control, pushes him over the edge.

His cock spurts where it is trapped between them, and he rides the bursts of pleasure into the hazy light of oblivion. He almost doesn't notice when Koumyou collapses against him, their hearts thudding in syncopation where their chests are pressed together. Koumyou's lips move softly against the tender skin of his neck, and his fingers twitch on the slick skin of Koumyou's back in response. _Almost,_ Ukoku thinks as he sinks into the darkness creeping over him, _as though we're lovers. Almost as though he's truly mine._

* * * * * * *

Ukoku returns to himself by degrees. His skin stings in several places until a cool, wet cloth soothes him. He opens his eyes to see Koumyou kneeling next to him. Koumyou brushes faded silver-gold hair back from his eyes and watches Ukoku carefully. Ukoku says nothing. Koumyou is already dressed, he notices. Bitterness wells up from deep in his chest, but he ignores it.

"I have to go back home, to Kinzan," Koumyou says quietly. Ukoku can see that his bottom lip is swollen. _I did that,_ he thinks. He licks his own lips, almost certain that he can still taste the warm, sharp flavor of Koumyou's blood. "I've left Kouryuu for too long." This time Ukoku does nothing to stave off the bitterness that erases the taste of Koumyou from his tongue. His anger leaves him feeling strangely vulnerable, and he does not like it. He pushes it aside, smothering it and looking away until he feels Koumyou running his long white fingers through his hair. Ukoku pictures the contrast in his mind: Koumyou's luminous hands being swallowed by the darkness of his hair.

Like the night swallowing the moonlight.

_Or like the light of the moon penetrating the dark of the night._ The traitorous thought bubbles up in Ukoku's mind before he can stop it. He frowns, brooding.

Silk and cotton whisper, breaking the silence as Koumyou stands. He pauses when he reaches the door. "It's never what you expect, is it, Ukoku?" Ukoku can only stare at him, startled out of his black reverie. _What?_ Koumyou smiles, the expression gentle and loving and sad. "That's why I'm here, Ukoku. That's always why I'm here." Ukoku sits up, mouth opening to retort or deny, but Koumyou's already slid the door closed behind him. Ukoku clenches his hands into fists.

Once again, Koumyou has left before the moon disappears below the horizon. The moonlight streams in through the window, mocking him.

_Damn him._

Ukoku looks away from the door, and his eyes alight on the knife. The blade glows silver on the floor, in bright contrast to the dark, irregular patch of shadow pinned beneath it. He reaches out, picking up the shadow between thumb and forefinger. When he sees what it is, he laughs mirthlessly: it's one of Koumyou's orange paper airplanes.

_Bastard._

* * * * * * *

It is the last time they see each other before Koumyou dies.

 

_ **phase eight: new moon** _

_…blood._ He absently wipes his mouth with his thumb. In the weak lamplight, the smear of blood is dark against his sallow skin. He presses his forefinger against the cut in his lip. Sharp pain flares, and he feels new blood bloom beneath it. His fingertip comes away stained crimson-black.

Lady Gyokumen Koushu is not gentle with her lovers.

_It began with blood, is sustained by blood, and ends in blood,_ he thinks to himself.

Goudai Sanzo's blood, spilled that he might anoint himself as Sanzo priest all those years ago. He lifts his hands, seeing the shadow of Goudai's blood in the lines of his palm.

His own blood, spilled by Koumyou Sanzo. He slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps one out. His thumb traces a small circle in the hollow of his hip when he puts the pack back into his pocket, and he can see a faint, curving scar—like a tiny, knowing smile—on the inside of his right wrist as he raises the cigarette to his lips.

Koumyou's blood, warm on his lips and cooling on the floor of the room at Kinzan Temple. He lights the cigarette and flicks the match away angrily. _That blood,_ he tells himself, _is on Kouryuu's hands, regardless of who struck the killing blow or for what reason._

Smoke sticks in his throat, and he coughs once.

He looks up, into the night sky. There is no real moon tonight—only thousands upon thousands of stars and the faint shadow of the new moon, if you know where to look. The sky is deep, endless. It's beautiful, in a way. But without the balancing effect of the moon, the darkness of the night seems somehow diminished. _That's something you would say, Koumyou,_ he thinks. He snorts at this uncharacteristic sentimentality and takes a drag from his cigarette, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs. He holds it there for a moment, letting the nicotine seep into his bloodstream before relaxing his diaphragm. The smoke spirals up into the cool night air, disappearing slowly. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Or perhaps it's his blood that's bitter—still, after all this time. He licks his lips experimentally. Bitterness spreads from the tip of his tongue to pool at the back of his throat.

_No._ He remembers this. _This is what victory tastes like:_ bitter, like Goudai Sanzo's blood; like nineteen-year-old tears.

Like the end of the world.

He takes another drag, the hot smoke creeping into the hollow places in his chest. It makes his eyes and throat prickle, and when he expels the smoke in a forceful exhalation, its dull flavor mingles with the bitterness on his tongue. He tastes life and death and memories there.

Nii Jianyi drops the cigarette. The ember glows brightly in the darkness until he steps on it, grinding it to nothingness beneath the sole of his shoe. He salutes the faint shadow high in the sky and walks out into the cold air of the moonless night.

He still has a bet to win.

 

**end**


End file.
